Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Phone books, I’ve concluded, are what annoyed people before the advent of the Internet and pop-up ads, showing up on doorsteps once a year, garish and large, in a desperate yellow bid to seize your attention. Honestly, now–when was the last time you cracked open a telephone directory? Exactly. Nevertheless, it continues to appear uninvited, and you’ve got to wonder about the economics behind such an institution. It’s like the Radio Shack of books, in a way, because it persists, yet you don’t know precisely why or how. Do people really buy that many batteries and transistors every month? Do businesses actually pay cash money to advertise in these hallowed pages? Why not purchase ad space inside, like, a dinosaur instead?
These are the mysteries of the modern world, but we’re not here to talk about phone books tonight. No, it’s more the time of year these books arrive–and are promptly pitched into the recycling bin–that’s relevant to me, because it’s usually around now that I mark my birthday. Normally I’d avoid mentioning as much because I prefer to fly under the radar, but yesterday was an exception because it began exceptionally poorly.
The long and the short of it is my car became surly as I was on my way to a celebratory lunch, its fine GM-quality construction kicking in at the perfect moment, effectively locking both my steering column and key in place. Apparently the piece of shit thought I was stealing it. Or something? Security measures sprung to life, preemptively warding off anybody in the Target parking lot who was planning on hot wiring my ride, and right then and there, as the smart key sat stupidly in place, I despised technology even more. What ever happened to plain metal keys that could activate automobiles with a simple turn?
After missing most of my workday, with two hours allotted to waiting for the tow truck, then another two to three hours spent getting my car onto said tow truck and transporting it to the dealership, where they essentially rebooted the security system for fifty bucks, I’ve garnered substantial insights. Prior to yesterday I operated from a framework of avoiding problems like this one. My goal, in other words, was to minimize the quantity of drama. But that’s something you can’t really control. For all I know, the goddamn wheels are probably going to fall off tomorrow, if everything goes well, right before my portfolio implodes and swine flu wracks my body. The real goal, I realized, is the art and manner in which I handle issues like this, and if the only way to figure this out was through a busted car, eighty-nine bucks out of pocket, and a few hours of waiting, well, it might just be the best present in years.